


Fever Pitch

by Lacemaze (Needle_Bones)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Jim is a reckless diva, M/M, Sick Character, Sickfic, fanfic friday
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-07
Updated: 2017-07-07
Packaged: 2018-11-28 23:16:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,425
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11428302
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Needle_Bones/pseuds/Lacemaze
Summary: James Moriarty is ill and being reckless about it. Sebastian tries to keep his boss alive and out of jail.





	Fever Pitch

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote a thing in an effort to stop being angry about S4. I've never written for anything Sherlock before but I needed to do /something/ after the finale, so... here's me attempting to get back into writing and figure out how to write these two.

James Moriarty was not a man to pick a fight with. Anyone with half a brain understood that, even if they never knew the man's name, never saw him beyond a quick glance in a subway station or a crowded club. Unless he hiding in plain sight – which, in his teenage years, had quickly become his favorite activity (“ _It's like a grown-up game of hide-and-seek!_ ”) – there was simply a vibe about him that set off alarm bells, told people to back up or risk losing a limb.

Unfortunately, James Moriarty was currently running a rather severe fever. Sebastian had noticed it when he'd briefly grabbed hold of his employer's wrist earlier in the afternoon, ostensibly to drag him from the crosswalk the man had inexplicably decided was a wise place to stand and argue with Seb about his comparative lack of planning. James had been quick to remove himself from the sniper's hold once they were safely on the sidewalk, but not before Sebastian had forgotten his place long enough to tell him to take something to bring his temperature down.

Moriarty had glared at him, his public mask slipping just a few inches before he righted himself with a shake of his head.

“Right,” he said, grinning faintly and casting a quick glance around at the people threading past them like water around rock. No one was brave or stupid enough to attempt to step between the two. When Moriarty spoke again, it was with a noticeable American accent. 'Jim' again, playing the tourist, rolling his eyes and lilting his way through his explanations. He clicked his tongue. “Sorry, Tiger– it's been a _super_ long day. But I'm _fine_ , really. It's just a little cold.”

Sebastian forced his hand back to his side. He shouldn't have overstepped like that. James was a grown man. The two of them were close, yes, but there were still limits to what Sebastian could get away with and attempting to tell James what do to was treading dangerously close to the line.

It occurred to him then that they must have looked like a couple to anyone passing them by – the 'rich boy, poor boy' kind that people wrote books about – Sebastian in his suit and long coat, and Jim in his torn jeans and ratty long-sleeved shirt. Just another couple in London, their existence of no consequence to the crowd around them, as easily forgotten as the weather – but just as changeable, just as destructive.

Still, no measure of acting talent could quite hide the rasp that had been steadily working its way into James' voice over the past few days or the way his gait trembled side-to-side just the barest of inches as he moved, gazing 'round like a tourist, through London's crowds. Whatever was causing his fever, Sebastian was beginning to get the feeling it was more serious than a simple cold.

He shook his head as he started walking again. Sometimes Moriarty switched personas so fast it nearly gave him whiplash. He trailed behind his boss as he often did, eyes flicking over faces, hands, coats, cases, looking for anything suspicious. The odds were that they could walk for miles without ever needing Sebastian's observational skills, but the colonel didn't care for walking thoughtlessly. Besides, it helped to pass the time.

The sun disappeared behind the buildings and with it went the warmth of the day. A bitter, biting chill crawled through the side streets James had decided to explore, lashing at them both from the crosswinds. From his place walking along the edge of the roof several paces behind, Sebastian could see him shiver in the stronger gusts, once or twice pausing to cough against his sleeve before pulling the near-freezing air into his lungs with a gasp that must have left his chest aching.

_Reckless_.

That was the word that swam under the surface of Sebastian's mind, flickering into focus for just a moment during scenes like these before disappearing beneath the waves again.

_This is reckless_.

Something was wrong. If he were asked later, he wouldn't have been able to explain it, but Sebastian knew the feeling well enough. The air was heavy and charged somehow, like that feeling you get just before a thunderstorm. There was no mistaking it: something was about to happen. He wrapped his fingers around the grip of the small handgun at his back. It wasn't his rifle, but it would be more than enough in most cases.

Up ahead, a collection of alcohol-soaked bodies tumbled around a corner, clinging to one another and laughing loud enough to wake the street. Sebastian made himself hard to spot, crouching and pressing his shoulder against the short wall that penned in the building's roof.

_Keep walking_ , he thought, sharp eyes flickering from face to face. _He's no one interesting – just keep walking._

Two stories below him, James coughed hard against his sleeve. He'd been sounding worse and worse as the hours went on, the noise becoming more of a rattling wretch. One of the more lucid of the group spun in a circle before locating the source of the sound and even across the considerable distance, Sebastian saw him grin.

The kid looked James up and down before spinning half-way back the way he came and calling “Hey, look what I found,” to the rest of the gaggle, which looked to be mostly comprised of college-age punks. Then, to Jim, “What're you doin' out so late, honey?”

Moriarty shifted, wavering before scuffing the side of his ratty trainer against the asphalt near the glint of a broken bottle. “I, uh...” he began, sounding younger and unsteady in a faint Irish lilt. “I got a little lost.”

Sebastian braced the gun on the edge of the wall as the drunk moved closer. _Damn it, Jim, you're off your game – don't try to play with them._

“Well, come 'ere,” the kid laughed, winding an arm around James' shoulders and halfway dragging him toward the others. “Me 'n my friends - we know this place like th' back of our hands. We'll get ya right where ya need to be.”

Seconds ticked by and Sebastian could feel his nerves being pulled tighter and tighter with each shuffling, off-balance step James took. _Do something, Boss._

Then...

“On second thought...” Moriarty dug the heel of his shoe into the pavement, stopping them cold. “I don't think I wanna.”

What happened next happened all at once. James may not have liked to get his hands dirty, but that didn't mean he was anywhere near incapable in a fight. The kid never saw that left hook coming.

Sebastian knew better than to relax. Fights tended to sober people up and there were quite a few still on their feet, most of whom probably wouldn't think twice about jumping into the fray. As if on cue, one of the women ran forward only to be stopped by James clothes-lining her across the throat. She hit the ground next to the first drunk and didn't get back up.

Now the mood was changing. Now it wasn't funny anymore. Sebastian kept the people closest to James in his sights and watched the chaos unfold. It wasn't often that he got to see his boss in action. Most of Moriarty's work was cerebral and calculating, kept at arm's length from anything that required him to start throwing punches... or bodies.

Most of the group scattered when the second man landed solidly on his back on the edge of the sidewalk. Sebastian suspected the angle and force had broken his spine. Served him right.

James rolled his shoulders as he straightened, pausing to shake blood off of his hand. He'd split his knuckles against the first kid's teeth. The colonel's stomach twisted when he saw him tip his head to the side in that reptilian way he did when something truly had his attention. Interesting things tended to happen when James reacted that way.

There were only two men left standing, but they were the largest of the group and had also appeared the most sober at the start of the party. The group's unofficial bodyguards for the night, Sebastian guessed. That might not have been an issue if James hadn't miscalculated.

It was just a small hesitation. The fever was making him shaky, clouding his thought processes. He shifted his weight, then quickly shifted it back to reassess. It wouldn't have been a problem for him save for the fact that the two remaining bruisers noticed and pounced.

The first man was dead before he hit the ground. The second scrambled away from the body with enviable speed, but even blind panic can't outrun a bullet. It was a small consolation that the police would be chewing on this one for a good long while. _Better to keep them busy...._

The crack of the gunshots faded, reverberating off the buildings until the echoes finally dropped below human hearing, leaving behind a dull ring. Sebastian cursed through his teeth as he scrambled down the fire escape. Lingering around a fresh crime scene in plain sight was never a good idea.

“Time to go, Boss,” he said as he walked up to offer James his hand. “The Yard should be along soon.”

Moriarty ignored him, opting instead for sitting on the sidewalk with his head in his uninjured hand, watching the blood drip from his fingers with an expression Sebastian could only describe as 'sulking'. Under ordinary circumstances, Sebastian wouldn't have even considered what he was about to do, but he doubted that sitting in jail would do much for his boss' temperament, so he made an executive decision.

The second his hand was firmly wrapped around James' arm, he knew something was wrong. James Moriarty was not the sort of man to be bullied and harried and dragged. People who tried always ended up disappearing. So when the man offered no resistance beyond a lagging step that Sebastian soon realized was caused by a lack of balance, everything changed again.

“Come on,” said the sniper. “We're going home.”

~ * ~

By the time the apartment door was firmly shut behind them, James had given up pretending he was fine. The crime lord seemed to be holding himself together by a string, leaning against his bodyguard in the entry way as though he were afraid to move unassisted. Sebastian eventually decided that direct action was faster and picked the man up, carrying him across his chest into the small first-floor washroom.

“Basher...” James began, sitting on the edge of the bathtub and leaning most of his weight against the wall. He was trying for the usual scolding tone he employed when he felt ignored, but only managed to clip the target.

“Not now, Boss. Really need to get your temperature down.” Sebastian was careful not to look at James for longer than necessary. He'd didn't care to admit it, but he was worried. He'd never seen him this bad off before, even on the few occasions he had personally fetched him back from certain exquisitely dangerous areas of the world. Whatever this was had him fighting for a full breath, small tremors running the length of his arms, shaking salt and copper from his fingers.

“'m fine.” James lied, swaying where he sat. Then, randomly, “Those kids were fun.”

Sebastian rolled his eyes, checking the water against his wrist. Only James would consider the risk of being beaten to death (or worse) _fun_. At least Seb had been there to keep things from getting too out of hand. Moriarty's guardian angel... with a nine millimeter.

“There.” Sebastian closed the taps before drying his hands on the edge of his shirt. Warm water was safer and more effective than an ice bath, but he doubted that would stop James from complaining. “Get in,” he said, straightening. When James only raised an eyebrow at him, he continued, “I'm pretty sure brain damage isn't high on your 'Fun' list, Boss.”

“Depends. Are we talking about my brain or someone else's?”

Sebastian responded by looping an arm around Jim's waist and quickly but carefully tipping him into the bathtub. James, of course, came back up spitting water and curses.

“You can trigger a seizure that way, you ass!”

“I know, Boss.”

“You could have _warned_ me!”

“I know, Boss.”

After a few seconds of silence broken only by coughing and spitting, James seemed to give up, curling in on himself. He sulked for a moment before sighing and placing his head on the edge of the tub near Sebastian's arm. “Sorry I worried you, Basher,” he said, nearly too quiet to hear.

Sebastian blinked at him, fighting down the urge to ask him to repeat it. James never apologized. For anything. The man would outlive the devil out of sheer stubbornness. He was also likely to blame his rare show of sentimentality on his 104-degree temperature as soon as he'd recovered a bit and, somehow, that thought was comforting. James' skin already felt cooler to the touch, so Sebastian let himself relax a little, brushing a few damp strands of hair back from his boss' face.

“Thought sure you'd skin anyone who manhandled you without permission,” he said. “Does that make me special, Mr. Moriarty?”

James snapped a hand up from under the water, splashing his bodyguard in the face. Sebastian spluttered and spat, and James laughed before collapsing into a small coughing fit. “I don't know what you are, Sebastian,” he said once he'd gotten his breath back. “But I'm glad you're mine.”

The sniper stopped vainly trying to wipe water from his face. Every now and then he could pry those kinds of sentiments out of his employer, but they were beyond few and far between under normal circumstances. Over the years, he'd learned not to waste them.

Sebastian leaned as close as he could given the tub wall between them, pulling James into an embrace, pressing close to the wet shirt and the too-warm body. These were the small, domestic moments he'd come to cherish over the years he'd worked with Moriarty. No one was dying, no one had to be killed, nothing had to be stolen. Even James' beloved Sherlock hadn't made an appearance. It was just this. Just them. Looking out for one another.

James wound his arms around Sebastian's neck and squeezed. “I could kill you for dropping me in here,” he said, his voice muffled against the man's shoulder.

Sebastian laughed before pressing a kiss to James' hair. “I know, Boss.”


End file.
